Monday, October 25, 2010
Away from home thoughts.
I’m on a job in Baltimore, Maryland, as I write this. Grateful for the work, grateful I can be part of a friend’s dream, grateful to meet new people, to travel. The place that I’m staying, however, gives me a creeping claustrophobia. It’s not unclean, the service is fine, all the people who work here are kind and attentive. It’s the surroundings. I’m in a Marriot Hotel nestled on the outskirts of Baltimore, a community called Hunt Valley. Just down the hill from where I’m staying is the Hunt Valley Mall and between the hotel and the mall are peppered buildings, constructions of cement and glass identical to many other communities across the nation. In fact, if I woke up with amnesia this morning and walked out side, I’d be hard pressed to tell anyone where I was. It could be Indianapolis, Indiana or Burbank, California. The architecture is all THE SAME. The malls stores are all THE SAME as they would be in Arizona or Utah – Best Buy, Panera Bread, California Pizza Kitchen, Regal Cinemas. Maybe for some people, maybe most people, I don’t know, comfort is gotten from such homogenized surroundings, but I find it hard to breathe around it. I feel a creeping claustrophobia by the SAMENESS of EVERYTHING!! ‘Am I crazy?!’ I wonder. No one else seems bothered by this robotic life style creeping into every arena of their lives. And I don’t want to get all Cassandra/Chicken Little about all of this, but it seems to have some kind of relationship to all the deadening that surround us more and more and more – processed foods, chemical fertilizers, Monsanto, genetically modified whatevers, industrialized agriculture, fossil fuel dependency, consume, consume, consume. Okay, I am getting all Cassandra about this and I really just wanted to note it and put it down. It does make me miss Vermont where, for the most part, there’s a chance at holding on and preserving some of the old ways, making them new and renewable again. Being closer in touch with the natural, the sustainable. Some times I do feel I live in a mad world where the solutions to certain problems or challenges seem so obvious and easy and nevertheless are ignored. The challenge is how to first, breathe, breathe, become aware of whatever it is I’m upset about, then to accept the situation, hold back anger and reactivity, and, taking in everything, decide upon a plan of action. How can I best help the world I live in? How do I wake up more to the challenges that surround me? How can I best use my talents to bring about change? And not confrontational, in your face, I know better and you’re an unevolved idiot change, but a kind, gentle, calm, and many times indirect change that may take years to bring about. To intend patience and commitment and clarity to a cause. It’s easy to rail. It’s easy to get riled up and blame and bluster. I can certainly fall prey to that. It’s also easy to hide away and not be part of the world. How to be part of the world and not at the mercy of its whims and seductive mood swings. Hmmm? How to be fully alive to it all?
Friday, October 15, 2010
A bit of a Catch Up
“The leaves are all off the trees,” Richard announced from our bed this morning as he peered out the upstairs window into the splattery day. “The rain’s brought the rest of them down.” You can barely hear the rain in our bedroom with its many layers of solid insulation, but here in our newly (almost) completed part office/part den/part “to be determined” there’s a constant, hushy ebb and flow on the roof, the insulation not quite as thick here in order to expose old barn beams. The winter rye grass I sewed in the garden yesterday must be enjoying this thirst quenching soak, as are the geese, out on the pond. I’m a little blue today what with the rain and the news of the barrenness of the trees and the thought of winter coming soon, long, long sterile winter, it seems like a prison sentence today. This too shall pass, I know, but there you have it. I’ve sat composing several entries to the blog over the past couple weeks, but never took that final step to get them in, so I’m going to bunch them together here as a kind of “catch up.”
A Touch of Displacement. (October 4th, 2010)
Just back from a trip overseas, to Italy, and back now, a full day of travel yesterday, back to see that peak color has passed, plunked down in our home, welcomed with purrs and nudges by our cats, glad to be back and yet feeling a stranger here. Some part of me feels as if it’s still over the Atlantic Ocean, trying to catch up. I’ve had this feeling countless times in my life after any number of journeys, but inside it always feels like the first time. A displacement. Where am I? Who am I? There are chores to do, some having to do with the recent trip - putting things packed in bags back in drawers, the cleaning up after animals after having been away - and then there are the chores of the season – screens coming down, storm doors up, patching up, mulching, there are bulbs to plant, calls to be made, deposits, activity. I was scurrying about the house, fueled by coffee, getting things done, yes, but not connected or grounded, just a buzzing around like the fly behind me in the kitchen, banging against the window, flying, buzzing, making noise, moving. So I sat, the last thing I wanted to do, and began writing, the thing I yearned to do but my mind kept telling me there wasn’t enough time. Odd, that. Especially in Vermont, in the country, in the woods. Not enough time. So to ground myself I sought out a little Henry David Thoreau. There’s a daily site I go to where you can read journal entries of his from various years. In today’s entry from October 4th, 1851 Thoreau had honored a neighbor farmer he admired and this phrase flew out to me:
“he is paid by the constant satisfaction which his labor yields him.”
He went on to describe a man never focused on what pecuniary value his crops would yield. No eye focused rigidly on the future, or on present worry or anxiety. A man, it seemed, fully present in his life, patient, grateful, happy, at ease, making labor effortless and graceful, abundant in the life he had chosen to live. Aware, awake. Thank you Henry David for that sweet praise of a good man. “A constant satisfaction.” Being satisfied for some reason has such an onus around it. Satisfied. Something has equated it with standing still, not moving, not achieving. “Divine dissatisfaction,” that praise of the artist’s constant restlessness coined by either Agnes DeMille encouraging Martha Graham or vice versa is a phrase that has stuck with me for years. I know that DISsatisfaction intimately. Its good side compels me on; its dark side oozes with perfectionism and impatience, not enoughness, and finally with “why even try?” And it shuns and scorns satisfaction, and I guess, by extension, contentment. I may be oversimplifying. Why can’t both states live together without the exclusion of one or the other? Does there have to be an either/or? I love the picture of that farmer taking sheer delight in his life. A state of satisfaction devoutly to be wished. I hereby place it at the top of my list of chores.– “Enjoy the day.” And welcome myself back to this place.
Letting the Geese Out (October 10, 2010)
There was a frost last night, you can see its hoary five o’clock shadow icing the grass and the brown maple leaves on the ground. They see me coming, the geese, Shmuel especially, standing in the window looking out, all excitement and hopping up and down where he used to start biting the glass, trying to get “at me.” All this has changed since the coyote attack. He’s still “the boss” of the group, but he’s a kinder, gentler gander. I guess that’s good. I do miss his brashness, his braying, but bottom line, I’m just glad he’s around and healthy.
I’m clad part pajamas – colorful flannel bottoms with a thick orange gap shirt above – and part proper outer gear – a taupe fleece jacket and black “Stormy Kromer” cap and, of course, boots, WARM boots, for its still in the 30’s this morning (though it will rise to the 60’s later.) I have my poetry book and a white legal pad and pen just in case I decide to hike up the rise for an early morning look see of the final bits of color after I let the geese out. And there’s my cup of coffee too.
Oh, the hose is frozen. Of course. It’s stretched out from the house up the hill. I’d wanted to give them fresh water, but that will have to wait now until the sun melts the ice inside. I’ll have to store it soon and oh, pictures of those long mornings coming up the hill, toting the water from inside. It’s really not that bad, it’s just that the idea of winter coming is not a welcome thought this year. I dash it from my mind and get present in the day for it’s gorgeous out. Oliver, our orange and white tabby, hops up on the slabs of granite half way to the goose house. These used to be foundational stones for the chicken barns that used to be here ages ago. Now they form a sort of Stonehengey arrangement. He’s awfully affectionate this morning, it’s sweet, good to have his company, but I bet he’s wondering now why he had begged to be let outside because fur or not, it’s cold out here. I pet him, lay my coffee cup and pad and pen down, and continue on uphill.
Shmuel’s excitement is catching, the general chatty hum has increased, anticipating freedom. I come up around the far side of the garden, the garden I hoed yesterday, getting the soil ready for planting rye grass several days from now to help the nitrogen level of the soil. Since the coyote attack, I’ve designed to sections of goose lounging areas. The first is their smaller pen where they are now, clamoring for release, and the second larger area – when they’re not let loose to the pond – includes the garden and above. They’ve been wonderful at eating down the last remnants of plants and fertilizing the ground and soon, once the grass has been sewn, I’ll have to reconfigure the area since they won’t be allowed down in the garden proper. Keeps things hoppin’. I unclasp a jerry rigged section of fence and sweep it back behind an apple tree to give them a wide exit out into the meadow and down to the pond. Then I cross to their smaller pen. They shy back momentarily while I reach in to unclasp the latch and then bow back to encourage them out. Honks, flapping wings, Freedom!! I run ahead a bit to show them that the piece of fence is indeed down. Shmuel’s cry is not as high as it used to be, but it’s still authoritative. He leads the wing-flapping bunch down the hill, proud, erect, keeping them in line. He’s assimilated his injuries into a new style. For instance, his neck doesn’t stretch out quite the same way it used to, there’s a bump or 2 in it, and when he flaps his wings and “flies” he’s not as graceful as before, a tad cattywampus. But still, he works it. If the other’s go off on their own flight path, he honks them back, no questions asked. All of this sends a huge smile across my face. It’s the morning to me, seeing them fly free, make their way to the pond. And then on the pond, they’re like kids, racing about, doing somersaults, adventuring anew to various spots. I love them.
Oh, and we – we meaning Richard and me and our dear visiting friend Jean – planted daffodil and crocus bulbs all over yesterday – the shore of the pond, by the stone wall, all over. Surprises that will pop up out of the snow come Spring. Hooray.
A Touch of Displacement. (October 4th, 2010)
Just back from a trip overseas, to Italy, and back now, a full day of travel yesterday, back to see that peak color has passed, plunked down in our home, welcomed with purrs and nudges by our cats, glad to be back and yet feeling a stranger here. Some part of me feels as if it’s still over the Atlantic Ocean, trying to catch up. I’ve had this feeling countless times in my life after any number of journeys, but inside it always feels like the first time. A displacement. Where am I? Who am I? There are chores to do, some having to do with the recent trip - putting things packed in bags back in drawers, the cleaning up after animals after having been away - and then there are the chores of the season – screens coming down, storm doors up, patching up, mulching, there are bulbs to plant, calls to be made, deposits, activity. I was scurrying about the house, fueled by coffee, getting things done, yes, but not connected or grounded, just a buzzing around like the fly behind me in the kitchen, banging against the window, flying, buzzing, making noise, moving. So I sat, the last thing I wanted to do, and began writing, the thing I yearned to do but my mind kept telling me there wasn’t enough time. Odd, that. Especially in Vermont, in the country, in the woods. Not enough time. So to ground myself I sought out a little Henry David Thoreau. There’s a daily site I go to where you can read journal entries of his from various years. In today’s entry from October 4th, 1851 Thoreau had honored a neighbor farmer he admired and this phrase flew out to me:
“he is paid by the constant satisfaction which his labor yields him.”
He went on to describe a man never focused on what pecuniary value his crops would yield. No eye focused rigidly on the future, or on present worry or anxiety. A man, it seemed, fully present in his life, patient, grateful, happy, at ease, making labor effortless and graceful, abundant in the life he had chosen to live. Aware, awake. Thank you Henry David for that sweet praise of a good man. “A constant satisfaction.” Being satisfied for some reason has such an onus around it. Satisfied. Something has equated it with standing still, not moving, not achieving. “Divine dissatisfaction,” that praise of the artist’s constant restlessness coined by either Agnes DeMille encouraging Martha Graham or vice versa is a phrase that has stuck with me for years. I know that DISsatisfaction intimately. Its good side compels me on; its dark side oozes with perfectionism and impatience, not enoughness, and finally with “why even try?” And it shuns and scorns satisfaction, and I guess, by extension, contentment. I may be oversimplifying. Why can’t both states live together without the exclusion of one or the other? Does there have to be an either/or? I love the picture of that farmer taking sheer delight in his life. A state of satisfaction devoutly to be wished. I hereby place it at the top of my list of chores.– “Enjoy the day.” And welcome myself back to this place.
Letting the Geese Out (October 10, 2010)
There was a frost last night, you can see its hoary five o’clock shadow icing the grass and the brown maple leaves on the ground. They see me coming, the geese, Shmuel especially, standing in the window looking out, all excitement and hopping up and down where he used to start biting the glass, trying to get “at me.” All this has changed since the coyote attack. He’s still “the boss” of the group, but he’s a kinder, gentler gander. I guess that’s good. I do miss his brashness, his braying, but bottom line, I’m just glad he’s around and healthy.
I’m clad part pajamas – colorful flannel bottoms with a thick orange gap shirt above – and part proper outer gear – a taupe fleece jacket and black “Stormy Kromer” cap and, of course, boots, WARM boots, for its still in the 30’s this morning (though it will rise to the 60’s later.) I have my poetry book and a white legal pad and pen just in case I decide to hike up the rise for an early morning look see of the final bits of color after I let the geese out. And there’s my cup of coffee too.
Oh, the hose is frozen. Of course. It’s stretched out from the house up the hill. I’d wanted to give them fresh water, but that will have to wait now until the sun melts the ice inside. I’ll have to store it soon and oh, pictures of those long mornings coming up the hill, toting the water from inside. It’s really not that bad, it’s just that the idea of winter coming is not a welcome thought this year. I dash it from my mind and get present in the day for it’s gorgeous out. Oliver, our orange and white tabby, hops up on the slabs of granite half way to the goose house. These used to be foundational stones for the chicken barns that used to be here ages ago. Now they form a sort of Stonehengey arrangement. He’s awfully affectionate this morning, it’s sweet, good to have his company, but I bet he’s wondering now why he had begged to be let outside because fur or not, it’s cold out here. I pet him, lay my coffee cup and pad and pen down, and continue on uphill.
Shmuel’s excitement is catching, the general chatty hum has increased, anticipating freedom. I come up around the far side of the garden, the garden I hoed yesterday, getting the soil ready for planting rye grass several days from now to help the nitrogen level of the soil. Since the coyote attack, I’ve designed to sections of goose lounging areas. The first is their smaller pen where they are now, clamoring for release, and the second larger area – when they’re not let loose to the pond – includes the garden and above. They’ve been wonderful at eating down the last remnants of plants and fertilizing the ground and soon, once the grass has been sewn, I’ll have to reconfigure the area since they won’t be allowed down in the garden proper. Keeps things hoppin’. I unclasp a jerry rigged section of fence and sweep it back behind an apple tree to give them a wide exit out into the meadow and down to the pond. Then I cross to their smaller pen. They shy back momentarily while I reach in to unclasp the latch and then bow back to encourage them out. Honks, flapping wings, Freedom!! I run ahead a bit to show them that the piece of fence is indeed down. Shmuel’s cry is not as high as it used to be, but it’s still authoritative. He leads the wing-flapping bunch down the hill, proud, erect, keeping them in line. He’s assimilated his injuries into a new style. For instance, his neck doesn’t stretch out quite the same way it used to, there’s a bump or 2 in it, and when he flaps his wings and “flies” he’s not as graceful as before, a tad cattywampus. But still, he works it. If the other’s go off on their own flight path, he honks them back, no questions asked. All of this sends a huge smile across my face. It’s the morning to me, seeing them fly free, make their way to the pond. And then on the pond, they’re like kids, racing about, doing somersaults, adventuring anew to various spots. I love them.
Oh, and we – we meaning Richard and me and our dear visiting friend Jean – planted daffodil and crocus bulbs all over yesterday – the shore of the pond, by the stone wall, all over. Surprises that will pop up out of the snow come Spring. Hooray.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
